


Silently Resplendent Orange Juice

by lucifernskywdiamonds (24hourpartyperson)



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Fuckin.... philosophy????, NOT like citrus scale oranges, Oranges, Other, Overly expensive orange juice, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, There’s too much smut in this fandom, This started as an inside joke, War flashbacks, do whatever the fuck this is, so I’ve taken it upon myself to, the actual FRUIT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28101117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24hourpartyperson/pseuds/lucifernskywdiamonds
Summary: I originally wrote this based off of an inside joke that had NOTHING to do with The Beatles and then I made it about George Harrison because nobody’s stopping me.Also I highly recommend listening to this with text to speech on
Relationships: George Harrison/a literal glass of orange juice
Comments: 34
Kudos: 17





	1. Silently Resplendent Orange Juice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Satan himself](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Satan+himself).



He had never seen anything like this.

Never before had his eyes been graced with such perfection, nor would they ever be again.

It was a thing of beauty- simple, yet refined; silently resplendent, with a subtle reflective shine. It was not decorated and over-embellished as it had no need to be flashy, no need to strive too hard to be the best, because it already was, just as it stood.

It was the most gorgeous glass of orange juice George had ever seen- the sides of the glass were tall and subtly prismatic, and the juice itself was a clear orange with a yellow tint. Perfectly-shaped blocks of ice floated serenely on the surface. The only garnish was a perfectly shaped slice of orange resting on one side of the glass’ rim.

“I- wh- how-“ George was lost for words, taken aback. Astounded.

“...is there something wrong?” Asked the waiter, unenthusiastically.

“No, nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all.”

George couldn’t bear to start drinking the juice and destroy something so beautiful. He wanted to savour this as long as possible. But alas, no beauty is eternal. Before long the ice in the glass had begun to melt. Tears had started to roll down George’s face, flowing with unmatched sorrow and urgency. The vibrant, pure orange of the juice was beginning to lose its lustre. He could not help but cry, moved to tears at the loss of the most complete beauty he had ever witnessed.

“N-nothing.....” He could not hold his grief. People had begun to stare, but George paid no attention. They could never understand. They would never understand the weight of loss that George felt so heavily upon his shoulders. He began to sob.

The waiter pulled a chair next to George and sat down.

“Hey. Listen to me.”

“H-how could I possibly listen when my love has left me with n-nothing as much as a warning?” George sniffled, pointing to the orange juice.

He stared down at the floor, unable to look at either the waiter or the juice- it was all too much for him. Blast it all. Nothing could take his mind away from the glass. The ice kept melting. The glass’ outside began to cover with water. The orange on the rim fell, and the deep, gorgeous hue became more and more diluted. The sky began to darken and all of those in the restaurant left, save for George. Hours passed. What felt like years did. Anything could have happened in that time frame and George wouldn’t have noticed- he was too lost in mourning. Civilizations could have fallen, empires could have risen, and he wouldn’t have known. People lived and people died, and beauty seemed to fade from the world. Another bit gone. How long would it be until there was nothing pure and beautiful left? George couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t.

And yet the waiter retained his composure. He tried to get George’s attention. Eventually, George noticed the waiter snapping his fingers at him.

“What is it?”

“Do not cry. For beauty is fleeting... but oranges.... are forever.”

George stopped crying, for he had ran out of tears. But it didn’t matter anymore. He had accepted it. The stinging pain of loss was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp anymore. Shock and anger had passed, and it was time for acceptance.

“Thank you, s-“

“God, I finally got your attention. That’ll be £3.96 for the godforsaken motherfucking orange juice. And please, go see a therapist.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After receiving a glowing ~~three~~ ~~FOUR~~ SIX?????? kudos in about 2 hours, I felt it necessary to add that I CANNOT believe that there are actual living beings out there who enjoy this
> 
> And I also just realised how EXPENSIVE that orange juice is you can get entire BOTTLES for that amount damn


	2. George Drinks Orange Juice After Brushing His Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay just so I don’t get yelled at in the comments this is NOT meant to minimise PTSD in any way it’s just a crackfic gone haywire pleAse for the love of god do not take a single word of this seriously

George had decided.

Decided as he brushed his teeth that morning. He was simply going about his ordinary morning routine- part of which was to brush his teeth with a strongly concentrated mint toothpaste. As he stood up to look in the mirror after brushing his teeth, his eyes met his reflection’s.

It was that moment he made the decision.

He would not make the same mistake twice- he couldn’t afford to.

The orange juice would be his. He would seize it before it was diluted. If it was inevitably doomed, he may well experience it in its purest form while it lasted. If that meant disfiguring its beauty, so be it- for it was fragile, fleeting, and impermanent whether he intervened or not.

So he grabbed his jacket and keys, running out to the car. A tin of mints sat in the centre console. _I know I just brushed my teeth, but a mint on the way there can’t hurt_ , he thought as he popped one into his mouth, speeding out of the drive.

He pushed the gas pedal as far as it would go and drove to the restaurant with the rage and fury of a man gone mad, blowing past red lights and stop signs, leaving skid marks all over, completely destroying someone’s yard, nearly running over an old lady trying to cross the street. But George simply didn’t give a shite. He wanted that godforsaken motherfucking orange juice and nothing was going to get in his way.

George sped into the parking lot, slammed the car door shut, and ran up to the restaurant’s entrance. (Yes, THE restaurant. The home of his one true love, the holy orange juice. The holiest of holy.)

He yanked on the door handle for what seemed like millennia. It wouldn’t budge. Infinite time seemed to pass, even though it was closer to the blink of an eye. He couldn’t be kept from his love when he was so close.

George finally had enough, and so he kicked the door in. It was then that he realized it was a push door. He still didn’t really give a shite.

Marching up to a table and commanding the waiter’s attention, he ordered a glass of the sweet orange elixir he so craved. The waiter stared at him for a brief moment before retreating to the kitchen. By now George’s mint had fully dissolved, but the strong taste remained. Between the toothpaste and that, his entire mouth was, in essence, pure cold.

The very second that the waiter set the glass of juice down, George picked it up. It held the same beauty as the one from before- the same deep shade of yellowy-orange, another perfect slice of citrus balanced on the rim, and a few cubes of glimmering, precisely-cut ice floating at the top. He would have stopped to admire it, but there was no time. George wasn’t here to play games- if he fell under the juice’s spell once more, he would fail his mission. There was no time to look, no time to think, only time to act.

It would have been perfect.

He had overlooked one thing- the ghostly lingering taste of mint still overtaking his mouth. As the orange juice met his tongue, the flavours clashed and marred the orange juice’s taste so completely and irrevocably that George threw himself and the glass upon the floor out of sheer reflex.

The juice seeped into the carpet, lost forever in the dark.

The glass shattered into countless pieces, each glinting in the light.

George crashed face-first into the ground. His vision went completely black.

And just like that, he remembered.

He began to cry- giant, racking sobs that came from deep within.

But this time George did not only weep out of loss- he did not cry solely for what he no longer could see, but for what he was seeing. The lives of millions flashing before his eyes. The clash of mint and citrus resounded in every fibre of his being, firing like thousands of guns going off at once, leaving nobody in the battle left alive. We are all casualties in life- and George was so abruptly made aware of this that he could not help but cry.

He saw the atrocities of mankind in the blink of an eye. Cities burning, buildings crumbling, cars crashing, people dying. He remembered now, and he always would.

He had seen everything all at once, every past life among infinite futures. The souls of millions departing, breaking, flying forever away into the unknown. Souls ascending only to one day fall away into the infinite night, and spirits being outcast from even Hell out into the void of oblivion. He saw every action from every angle, and every death from the view of the killed and the killer at once. Each chase from both sides, the hunter and hunted. He heard the cries and inhuman screams of people who wished for their escapes in vain, and never could be freed of their torments and anguishes. Every soldier in every war, from the bombers to the bombed. He saw all of these visions flash before him faster than he could blink them away.

There was nothing he could do, no way to fight any of it. Nothing to do but surrender.

Not at all necessary, but I believe that Ian Curtis of Joy Division said it best-

_Here are the young men, the weight on their shoulders,_  
_Here are the young men, well where have they been?_  
_We knocked on the doors of Hell's darker chambers,_  
_Pushed to the limit, we dragged ourselves in,_  
_Watched from the wings as the scenes were replaying,_  
_We saw ourselves now as we never had seen._  
_Portrayal of the trauma and degeneration,_  
_The sorrows we suffered and never were free._  
_Where have they been?_  
_Where have they been?_  
_Where have they been?_  
_Where have they been?_  
_Weary inside, now our heart's lost forever,_  
_Can't replace the fear, or the thrill of the chase,_  
_Each ritual showed up the door for our wanderings,_  
_Open then shut, then slammed in our face._  
_Where have they been?_  
_Where have they been?_  
_Where have they been?_  
_Where have they been?_

-Joy Division, “Decades” (1980)

The war within him waged on for an eternity, spiralling into the cosmos, away from even the life and death of the individual and becoming everything and nothing all at once. It had become something bigger than anybody could handle- something greater than humanity, and something beyond our full comprehension. So much so that these words could never describe it. Nothing terrifies us as much as that which we cannot know, and it was all shoved in George’s face without warning.

“HOLY FUCK, MATE! ARE YOU OKAY?”

George snapped back to the present moment. People once again were staring and whispering to each other. He once again didn’t give a shit.

The waiter stood over George with an empty glass pitcher in his hands. George looked down- his clothes were soaked and a few stray cubes of ice were scattered on the floor nearby. The waiter must have ice-bucket-challenged him back to this plane of existence, and for that George was eternally grateful.

“Eh….. where am I?”  
“The floor.”  
“No, but-“  
“£3.96 for the juice. Extra fee for the glass. And then the jug of water. This glassware is NOT cheap, so that’ll be a total of about £200-“

George slapped all of the money in his wallet onto a nearby table.

“Keep the fucking change.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know how this turned from an innocent crackfic about orange juice into a university-level philosophy lecture, but it did.
> 
> I love and hate that when I try to write as a joke I end up with phrases like “souls ascending only to one day fall away into the infinite night” “every past life among infinite futures” “nothing terrifies us as much as that which we cannot know” and “we are all casualties in life” but when I go to actually write I’m just full stop heehoo peanut


	3. That Which He Held So Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final installment in the Georange Saga.
> 
> [I think the worst part about this chapter is that I originally posted it at a fucking family gathering. Not that anyone asked.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this chapter reminds me of that one time my cousin smoked weed out of an apple right in front of me when I was 12.
> 
> Listen to Wild Honey Pie on repeat for maximum effect.
> 
> I might edit this a bit later. Sorry the update took forever.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

_No, not my love-!_ George cried internally. He was far too shocked to make any real sound.

The restaurant was being closed down.

_Tomorrow_.

George, again, absolutely fucking floored it to the restaurant. Upon arrival, he yanked on the door for minutes on end. Or hours, nobody’s quite sure. Not the point. By the time he managed to remember it was a push door, the sun had set. The restaurant would be closing any second now.

“Why are you closing?!” He asked the waiter, a distraught paranoia creeping into the edges of his voice.

“Health concerns.” Replied the waiter, now clad in a top hat and monocle.

“What health concerns? And your top ha-“

“The health department found dangerous levels of hallucinogens in various food and drink items. And I’m wearing this because I can, thanks to you giving me your entire wallet.”

**_Oh_ **.

“Well, that explains a lot.”

The room was starting to spin. He didn’t know if it was from sheer grief and shock, the joint he smoked in the car (this is not legal anywhere, please do not do this), the waiter putting a hex on him, or if the restaurant suddenly had turned into a carousel. And he didn’t really give a shite.

“What explains a lot? The wallet, or the hallucinogens?”

“Eh…. yes. Yes it does.”

“Anyway, do you want a glass of orange juice? Maybe you can actually, y’know, fucking drink some this time. As long as you’re okay with the whole drug situation.”

“Well, sure, but why is this place being closed down _tomorrow_ , if they’ve already found drugs in the juice? Wouldn’t they normally just shut it down today?”

“Dunno. Can’t really be bothered to give a shite. Anyway, would you like this with LSD or PCP?”

“LSD, please.”

The waiter handed George a glass of juice and he took a long sip. It was a perfect balance of tart and sweet, and it was every bit as beautiful as the last two. This time he didn’t have the whole toothpaste thing standing in his way, and could finally have a nice cup of godforsaken motherfucking orange juice in peace.

George looked down a few minutes later and orange and yellow fractals danced across the juice’s surface. It had come to hold a new kind of beauty- becoming more ethereally gorgeous because it would no longer be attainable, the looming pain of loss amplifying its cosmic and unparalleled lustre. Or maybe that was because of the drugs starting to kick in- he didn’t know, he didn’t care.

“Wait, hold on.” He set down the liquid perfection. “We need to have a funeral.”

“Okay. The cemetery’s just up the street. Let’s go. My shift isn’t over, but it’s not like I can get fired from a restaurant that doesn’t exist.” The waiter said, leaving the restaurant and taking a funeral urn from his pocket.

“Where’d that come from?”

“My pocket.”

George didn’t press any further, which was the correct decision. He poured the orange juice into the urn and shut it, tossing the glass in some random person’s yard. They could deal with it.

“That glassware isn’t fucking cheap! That’s going to be £100-“

“No.”

The duo walked down the road- not because the cemetery was close enough to walk to, but because George had forgotten about his car. This took much longer than anticipated because neither of them could walk in a straight line and kept knocking each other over.

“AYE! Careful, you’ll knock me in the garbage bin!”

“Good.”

Once they arrived at the cemetery the waiter took a shovel from his pocket.

“Where’d that come from?”

“Same place the urn did.”

Once again, George didn’t press further. First, because he didn’t want to know, and second because at this point he was too high to see anything too irrational about it.

The waiter handed George the shovel and he began to dig. Was dirt supposed to look like that? What were those eyes coming from? Why were they staring at him? Where even _was_ he? Who was he? Oh well, in the grand scheme of things none of that was important. The sole thing that mattered now was the juice’s last rites and that they be executed perfectly. Nothing could matter to George if he wasn’t able to give the juice the perfect funeral it deserved. If its beauty and glory were left uncelebrated and forgotten, he would never forgive himself. He would never move on.

Once he managed to dig a deep enough hole, it was time to part with that which he held so dear. He placed the urn into the hole with the same tenderness and care that one would lower the casket of a relative with- a melancholy that is only felt by those who know total grief and helplessness took a sharp hold of his emotions. There was nothing left to do now but say goodbye for all eternity.

“Goodbye, my beloved.”

He sprinkled dirt over the urn and it disappeared slowly, swallowed whole by earth. The ground reached for it with a million arms and a million teeth, devouring it with an indescribable hunger. He stared into the hole, the beast, the abyss, the void, the unknown. Shadows shifted through space and time, and the glow of pale ghosts filled George’s vision. Strange sounds- mumbling, whispers, and faint footsteps- resounded through the cemetery.

“Wait, you dumbass!” George’s thoughts shattered and the ghosts dispersed. “What if we tried to resurrect it?” The waiter yelled to him, laying on some random person’s grave.

“Brilliant, I didn’t think of that! But how are we supposed to do it?”

“Of course you didn’t think of it. I’m brilliant. And I suppose we should just chant some kind of satanic shite.”

Now his decision had to be made. One voice, one person, one Rude Fucking Waiter had snapped through every reality and pulled George back to this one- would he continue to let the orange juice be consumed by fate, or would he try to invert the very fabrics of life and death?

“Fuck it. Let’s try.” He declared with a sudden uncharacteristic boldness.

The two sat around the freshly dug grave and began to chant some kind of satanic shite. The thing is, neither of them knew exactly _what_ to chant.

“Legalise arson!”

“Demonic celery demonic celery demonic celery demonic celery”

“Legalise arson!”

“Fuck fuck fcuk fuvk fuckfuck fuchgfdakjkldsx”

“Legalise arson!”

“eggs”

“ONE EGG, SUNNY SIDE UP, WILL BE £4.59!”

“FUCK, THAT’S EXPENSIVE!”

“THEY AREN’T EVEN ORGANIC OR ANYTHING, WE JUST OVERCHARGE LIKE HELL!”

“NOW I SEE WHY YOU GOT SHUT DOWN!”

“AND THE DRUGS.”

“OH.”

The graveyard-keeper had heard all of this, but he didn’t want to interfere and ran for his life, so George and the waiter were left alone with only the spirits and themselves.

The LSD had now begun to take noticeable effect- George had begun to see strange things, and the waiter was getting more and more paranoid by the second.

A pale orange apparition rose from the ground. Its form was gracefully fluid and radiated a faint glow- it had to be the juice’s spirit. Had to. George would recognise it anywhere. Though the juice had changed form, its singular and unparalleled charm, allure, and perfection had carried over from its tangible incarceration. Maybe beauty _was_ eternal- it had endured death, after all.

George sat in awe of the spectral wonder. 

Meanwhile, the waiter fucking ran for it. 

As he bolted through the cemetery, George followed after him slowly- not exactly sure what was happening.

The waiter ran and ran through the graves. Finally, after running as hard as he possibly could for an eternity and tripping over multiple headstones, reached the street and saw a glowing light.

“LIGHT! CLEANSE MY SOUL! SAVE ME FROM THE TERRORS OF-“

Unfortunately for our dear waiter, said light just so happened to be attached to a double-decker bus. The bus crashed into him at god-knows-how-many-kilometres-per-hour and sent him flying across the road as George stood by in shock.

He flew through the air and scraped along the sidewalk, leaving a wide swathe of dark red blood in his wake. His monocle, which George pocketed had flown off and landed with a clatter in the middle of the road.

The bus driver wasn’t paying attention and thought the waiter was some kind of speed bump, so he just kept going along the road. The bus disappeared around the corner.

George had by this point largely disregarded the orange-juice-phantom-whatever-you’d-like-to-call-it and ran to the waiter. Upon seeing the blood splattered everywhere he bolted off in the opposite direction.

George was running frantically, trying to find a pay phone as he had left his mobile in his car (which he had also forgotten about).

“Better call an ambulance better call an ambulance better call an- WHO ARE YOU LOOKING AT?” He punched a street light, leaving his knuckles bloody.

George finally stumbled to the phone, but collapsed on the ground and passed out before he could finish dialing.

  * ••



“GEORGE! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

“No… wh- where AM I?”

He looked up to see Paul McCartney banging on the side of the phone box.

“Crammed in a phone box in the middle of the afternoon, right up the street from the dead body of some guy who got hit by a bus at half 3 this morning?”

George looked around. By god, he _was_ in a phone box, nearly upside down. And it was indeed the middle of the afternoon. His knuckles were covered in blood. _What the fuck?_ he thought, not quite remembering everything yet.

“Um…” he shifted around awkwardly, not able to get out. “Can you open the door?”

Paul opened the door and George flopped to the ground.

“Agh, my head feels like hell. Good lord… what a bloody awful fever dream.” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a broken monocle and then he remembered.

“Wait. Shite. That was REAL.”

Ringo appeared next to Paul. “George! How did this HAPPEN?”

“I- honestly I’ve no idea. There was the drugged juice… and then the demonic chanting…about celery… and the bus… one thing led to another, I guess? Like I said, a fever dream.”

John also came up to George, who was still sprawled on the pavement.

“Drugged juice? Where can I get some?”

“Well, the place is closed now, unfortunately.”

“Whatever. We can discuss this at home. Cmon, George.”

The other three Beatles hauled George to his feet and helped him into the car.

  * ••



It was a month later.

The waiter had been buried in the same cemetery that he died in front of. George couldn’t bring himself to attend the funeral. Not because he was too sad, but because the waiter was a bitch and he couldn’t force himself to pay respects when he didn’t have any.

He had just now gained the mental strength to try a glass of orange juice again. He knew it wouldn’t be quite like last time, but he had to try. It wouldn’t fill the void in his soul all the way, but it could maybe help just a little bit. The pain would still be there, but the edge would be gone. Right?

He looked into the glass, seeing his reflection staring back up at him. It wasn’t quite the same- something was missing. Something always would be. But he could at least try to move on.

He took a sip.

Something within him started to mend.

A faint orange apparition floated outside his window. George stared in awe. The apparition stared back. It seemed to nod and drifted softly away with the breeze.

The juice had fled, now merely a spectre fading into an endless night.

THE FUCKING END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this fucking travesty of a fic


End file.
